Gone
by british-bossy
Summary: What if Clara died? Myclara (Mycroft Holmes x Clara Oswald) fluff.


Gone

Sherlock stood in the door, unsure if he'd enter or rather stay put. Mycroft had sensed his presence right in that moment the detective had opened the front door of the politician's town house. He remained seated on his dining table and kept staring into nothing. He already knew what his brother was about to tell him.

"I tried", he forced out. "I really tried, Mycroft".

The politician did not react. Not one movement. Right now he was barely breathing. Shocked by the enormous pain that was spreading inside his chest. He tried to keep his breath even and his body motionless. Maybe, if he did not move at all the pain would still as well.

But it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring her back. Clara Oswald-Holmes was dead. And Mycroft Holmes would soon bury the only woman he had ever loved.

Clara. In front of Mycroft's inner eyes he could see her. Images of how she smiled, the way she moved her head. He recalled the smell of her hair, the warmth of her skin. Clara.

"She's not coming back, Mycroft", he only noticed Sherlock's presence right next to him when he spoke. He had not even heard him moving. By now the most powerful man in England was far gone, had lost himself in memories of his wife already. But it felt wrong. He was feeling wrong. Everything did. Although he kept calm on the outside he was shattering in this moment. How could she be gone? She was his wife, she was supposed to be with him. He was supposed to keep her safe and close. And she would never come back. She would never smile at him again. He would never be able to hold her in his arms again. She was gone. Clara.

"I'm sorry", Sherlock got out. "I'm really sorry, Mycroft".

Mycroft became aware of the fact that his brother had left when he heard the front door being closed. He let out a soft sigh and almost shivered at the pain that was unfolding inside of him. Closing his eyes briefly he admonished himself to get a grip before he stood and walked over to his study. He needed to focus right now. He would have to tell her father, in person of course. So, he phoned his PA, informing her about the current situation. And he would have to arrange the funeral. Clara.

It was dark outside already when he left his study and settled himself in his armchair in front of the fireplace. The room was comfortably warm but Mycroft was freezing nonetheless. His eyes fell to the couch where she had been sitting ever so often, her legs pulled up, a book in her hands. A memory. That was all that was left. She would never sit here with him. He would never hear her laughter again. The house was empty, silent. It was about to crush him. Mycroft clapped a hand to his mouth and refused to let the pained noise escape which was on its way up his throat, choking him. His chin was shaking and he gritted his teeth to keep control. How was he supposed to go on? Where was the point in doing so with her gone? He'd always been afraid that she would leave him but she never had. He'd been scared each time she'd run off with Sherlock and John, solving crimes. Each time, Kate Stewart from UNIT had called for her, he'd swallowed down the lump in his throat, trying his best not to let her see. He couldn't keep her safe in the end. He had always been unable to stop her from rushing into an adventure.

Clara.

She would never be there again. And no matter where he was, he would always feel the huge empty space inside his chest that she had left. Nothing would be able to fill it again. He had lost her. His wife. His love. His everything. Clara.

Mycroft remembered. The way her hand had always found his. Her gentle expression whenever he came in sight. The warm feeling in his stomach when he came home late from work to the smell of food and the sound of Clara singing some pop song in synchronisation with the kitchen radio.

He was supposed to shut himself off of feelings. But he couldn't. He was helpless to stop the pain. It would find him and torture him, not enough to kill him. Which was the worst part of it. He was alive. He would have to life on without her. How? How was he supposed to do it?

Clara.

She would be a ghost in this house, in his heart. Her ghost would be everywhere. Haunting him, while her presence was still lingering here.

Her deep brown eyes.

Clara.

Her great patience and kindness.

Clara.

"Mycroft?"

His eyes snapped open and he found himself lying in his bed, a worried Clara looking down at him in the warm shine of the bedside lamp. He stared at her, unable to find his voice. "You okay?", she asked gently. He reached out and cupped her cheek, gently brushing her skin as she leant over him, her fingers moving through his hair soothingly. "You called my name over and over", she murmered. _\- Concerned, still sleepy...alive!_

When he said nothing, she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed softly. Mycroft moved his fingers slowly up and down her neck, craving her warmth. "I dreamt that I lost you", he whispered into the crown of her hair. "How?", she asked, her palm on his chest. Mycroft closed his eyes. She was here and she was fine. "I cannot quite remember", he said. "But you died". At that she lifted her head to look at him. She smiled warmly at him, the tenderness in her eyes taking his breath away. When she kissed him, Mycroft felt the heavyness inside him fade away and he thanked a God he did not believe in for her life. She was everything. "Don't worry, husband", she whispered against his lips before resting her head back against his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere". Mycroft pulled her closer and breathed her in deeply, a wave of relief washing over him. "I love you", he murmered. He didn't say it often, it was still difficult for him. Not because of his feelings but for these exact three words. He wanted to savour them. He chose his words very carefully but right now he needed to say them. "I know", he could feel her smile. "Goodnight".

"Goodnight, Clara".


End file.
